


With Bated Breath

by THA_THUMPP



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, As fluffy as two enemies can be, Bittersweet, Breathplay, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mouth-to-Mouth, One Shot, Who says a kiss can't make it all better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2415197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While being stalked by Thomas Eichhorst in the tunnels under Manhattan, Abraham Setrakian finds himself breathless and out of medication - not to mention on the verge of a heart attack. But Eichhorst has something up his sleeve, something that the Jew won't <em>entirely</em> appreciate... Or will he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Bated Breath

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [屏住呼吸（翻译）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4382000) by [singularity0711](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singularity0711/pseuds/singularity0711)



> We just wanted some lip action... #FourPagesLater

_“Enough of this running, Jew. I am growing somnolent of this cat and mouse chase.”_

Thomas Eichhorst’s words whisked through the underground tunnel like a night wind and Abraham Setrakian felt himself chilled to the bone, hesitating. But only in brief to glance back into the darkness from the whence he came, and once he was sure he was alone – or at least a step ahead of the Strigoi – he fled further down the closest passage, like a rat furrowing deeper into the unknown. But there was only so deep he could run…

Setrakian’s legs were on fire, most of the ache above his knees, the worst in his chest. He was far too old for sprinting, for athletics in general, and was reminded of it with each step. Though he managed to press on, overcoat and all, the rims nipping above his ankles in wing-like wisps without wane.

Except that unison only lasted so long – up until the point his body betrayed his mind.

Setrakian stopped in his tracks, his heart erratic, squeezing like the numbness in his left arm. An uncomfortable pressure that seemed to stretch to his shoulder next, which he groped at like he’d just been shot. But it didn’t help, only made him feel more rigid, more his age – _old_. And from there the tension extended to his neck, a rooted tension that soaked into his bones. Just like the wheezes racking his lungs.

Within seconds, Setrakian had a breathlessness he couldn’t control, his chest feeling as though it was being poked by a thousand needles and his veins dried, which had him folding against the wall to use as a crutch. He slid, but not to his knees, more like a hunch while he prayed for a temporary release. Though hope only got him so far, and his pulse deafened the rest of his thoughts.

It was irregular, _stayed_ irregular. He could feel it thumping wildly, just as he could hear the off and on-beat of Eichhorst’s footsteps emanating from the long passage behind, the slope, as though they were tapping through glass. But to a trained ear, Setrakian picked up on each rung, almost certain that Eichhorst could sense his distress more clearly now.

After all, sound was but a dinner bell to a Strigoi, _as clear as a bell_ , and no later was there a wispy chuckle. Though in some aspects, it was more like a sweet croon.

_“There is no use in hiding. I can hear your heart beating a mile away, which you are not…”_

Eichhorst’s footsteps slowed, paused, then fell into a dead silence. A sixty-second serenity which seemed to last more like three to the Jew before they picked back up in one, two—

_“I am getting closer, A230385.”_

The former-Nazi was toying with his prey, his singsong voice outwardly ricocheting off the tunnel walls as Setrakian pushed into another gait. Still struggling with his weakness, especially when every corner he turned seemed to stretch longer than his legs.

_“Does that frighten you?”_

Setrakian would be foolish to say _no_ , and in haste he missed his footing in a rut, catching himself amidst his stagger, all the while losing Sardu’s sword. It slid from his slender fingers – all raw from gripping at the surrounding textures in a guide – in place of his balance, and struck the ground in a whiny clang.

The noise was startling, louder than Setrakian expected, more like _wished_ it was, and he held his breath despite the shortness of it. Especially when he heard the rising and falling of Eichhorst’s cadence pick up, grafting the illusion that the German was right behind him – if not upon him.

_“Yes… Still a sentimentalist, I see. Your heart cannot lie to me. It is betraying you— leading me straight to you.”_

Unable to move this time round, Setrakian stilled. With all his movement and no break room, the pain was tenfold in his chest by now – with no signs of letting up – and he ran a hand over his left breast, groping it like he thought he could will it calm just by touch. But when that didn’t work, he was fishing for his pillbox. Thoughtlessly, as his pockets seemed two times deeper and three times as empty.

Except Setrakian’s hands were too shaken, clumsy, and when he finally managed to pull the case out to hold, it slipped through his gloves, clattering back the way he’d just trekked and rolled with the slanted floor just as Eichhorst rounded the corner.

The German and Jew locked eyes, and to Setrakian the sight was enough to summon a whole new wave of sweat despite the already damp and humid atmosphere. It had him tucking his head low and ditching the thought of retrieving his case as he walked himself backwards, towards safety in spite of the hammering of his heart.

A mild heart attack, no doubt. But Setrakian kept to the shadows anyways and tired to round another bend – only to realize it was a dead end, which left him no other choice but to face his enemy.

Setrakian slowly twisted back to see Eichhorst lingering at the mouth of the entry – the now only exit – who tilted his head as if he was reading the air, _listening_ , with closed his eyes.

“There you are.” Eichhorst purred to the darkness just as the tip of his shoe caught the tumbling pillbox, stunting it from rolling any further.

The soft punt had the German looking down, soon turning green with envy before opening his arms courteously as if he was a performer on stage about to start his third act – his human-like persona crooking his lips like a bad pantomime.

“What is this?” Eichhorst chirped in his old-fashioned and obsolete courtesy. Never missing a moment to deflect true emotion with the temper of a cynic, leaving the Jew unmoved.

Setrakian rebuked with his eyes, scrunching his face to show his distaste, his anger. _Humility_. He dared not speak and give words for the former-Nazi to play with, to use as weapons. Especially since he didn’t know what to make of this new side of Eichhorst – his eyes, both a baleful red beryl among the bleak stones of the walls and glowing with amusement.

Definitely not benevolence, Setrakian noticed when the Strigoi bent down discreetly and picked up his pillbox, tapping out a tablet before shaking the container like he was checking if there were any more left – which there weren’t, as told by the silence and no rattle.

It was the last of the bottle, just like the Jew of his ancestors, and when no more bounced into his palm, Eichhorst stared at Setrakian as he let his elbow relax. Then bend, as he stepped into a ray of light – not direct sunlight, of course. It was just a streetlamp peeking through the manhole above, maintained with the cheapest the city could afford…

Harmless, florescent bulbs.

“You might want to get a refill, Jew.” Eichhorst rolled the sole pill between his fingers, squinting against the shaft above as if to admire the medication’s quality before lifting it higher as he walked closer. “You seem to be out.”

His steps were light when compared to Setrakian’s, and it was only when he was standing ridiculously close that Eichhorst stopped – just inches from the old carpenter. A worthy advisory throughout the years, who was now quite pale in comparison, looking as white as a ghost despite the dark mood.

And Eichhorst battered his eyes enigmatically before slipping the tablet of Coumadin into his own mouth with gratified smirk. A _tight_ smirk, no matter how fake it was, but Setrakian wanted to give him something real. _Pain_ – or at least hurt pride – and struck the German across his face, upsetting the caramel makeup and uncovering the ethereal skin of death beneath.

Almost immediately, Setrakian stumbled from the rebound, his back landing farther into the closest wall, his support, as Eichhorst’s head bounced back, face a little surprised. But also pampering as he let gravity return his chin frontward, which was rubbed soon after in a hum. Not an angry hum, though. More like valued.

After all, Eichhorst went to great lengths for his humanistic charade. Buying all sorts of make-up, tubs high in class like his complex. But that also went to show that he tried a little too hard to fit in, to look human, to _act_ human – _to be human_ , and try as he might, all he got from playing dress up was a boost to his own vanity. Because it did anything but make him look normal – more like odd and detached.

About as detached as he was standing now, as stiff as a board and brooding in a little fantasy for himself before Setrakian tried again. But this time Eichhorst didn’t let the hit land. He caught the Jew’s wrist, oh so tempted to lift the man off his feet, suspend him like a puppet. But surely that’d kill him, he thought, accelerate his already irregular heartbeats – beats blowing like a foghorn to his heightened hearing.

So Eichhorst let Setrakian go with a light shove, who was quick to droop against the wall. Droop like a fallen hero refusing to abandon his honor in the face of an enemy, even if it meant waiting for death. If not by Eichhorst’s hand than his own heart, which the Jew also groped in a hunch… as well as a reminder.

The pain was still great – his breaths still short – but it wasn’t constricting enough to make him bow his head and Setrakian gave the German a look of detestation, which in turn received one of pity.

“Fear not, A230385. I will not let you die tonight.” Eichhorst promised in a tone fit for someone who rightfully believed he had that power. The power over _life_ , and he splayed his fingers up Setrakian’s chest, hooking just under the man’s chin to stifle his air as he forcibly held the Jew’s head to keep their eyes joined. Which was very easy – like a moth to a flame. “But I will take something from you in return for my services.”

It wasn’t a threat, nor was it foreboding. But after it was said Eichhorst stole a kiss. Except it was so much more than just a meaningless peck. It was European – _normal_ – deep, wet and soft. Soft like the cosmetics the German smeared on his own lips with precision and care, covering his wraithlike skin tone.

It was also something Abraham Setrakian could concentrate on, not just the palpitations of his heart, and as much as he ostracized the idea he breathed with the kiss – _into_ the kiss. Except the German wasn’t breathing back…

He couldn’t. He didn’t have it in him anymore – _lungs_ – just a stinger with an immortal soul.

 _No soul_ , and Eichhorst smiled against Setrakian’s mouth when he finally heard the old man’s heartbeat level into something a little less uptight, lips more willing and thankful than he thought they’d be. Though the German’s never returned the fondness, and he ducked aside to linger next to the Jew’s ear with a humble whisper.

 _In humbleness_ , a characteristic Eichhorst forgot he had, but not before placing the pillbox back into Setrakian’s hands with a tight squeeze.

“Breathe easy, old friend. For you will miss it when it is gone.”


End file.
